


Return to Me

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly is fighting for her life after Moriarty's dramatic (and unwanted) return. Sherlock tells John how the two of them first met...and about their secret marriage. Angsty but with a Sherlolly ending because I may like to make them suffer but I'll always have a payoff for them and my readers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unconscious

The steady beeps and pings of the machinery were the only sounds in the room besides the soft aspirations of the respirator. Sherlock held his wife’s hand – the one with no needles stuck into the soft, pale flesh – in his and gazed unseeingly out the window of her hospital room.

It was the second time he’d seen Molly like this, so fragile and lifeless, the machines doing the work of keeping her alive, while he was left to wonder if she’d ever wake up again. And if she did wake up, who would she be? Would she remember him this time, or forget him as she had the first time?

It didn’t make it any better to know that both times she’d ended up like this had been entirely his own fault.

The sound of the door opening behind him was simply catalogued as another noise, as were the quiet footsteps that approached. Not a doctor or a nurse, the soles of the shoes were smooth leather rather than thick rubber, and he knew without turning who it would be even before John spoke.

“How is she doing?”

Sherlock waved toward the chart at the foot of Molly’s bed. St. Bart’s was modern in many ways but still clung to some old-fashioned habits. Such as physical, paper patient charts to go along with the electronic tablets doctors and nurses were provided with. Of course the families and visitors weren’t supposed to touch it; of course this was Sherlock Holmes and the staff were long familiar with his disregard of the rules.

Especially when it came to this particular patient.

Sherlock’s eyes remained focused on nothing as John quietly stepped to the foot of the bed and lifted the chart, scanning the latest entries and letting out a quiet sigh when he finished. That quiet sigh spoke volumes to his friend; nothing had changed, Molly was neither regressing nor improving…and there was still no way to know if the head injury had caused any sort of damage to her mind and memories.

There was a squeak and the sound of someone – John – dropping heavily into the chair on the opposite side of the bed, nearer to the window. “Sherlock. Sherlock!”

He blinked and focused his eyes on the other man, but not before dropping his gaze to take in Molly’s unconscious form. A spasm of guilt wracked him, and he resolutely looked away. It wasn’t the same as last time; it wouldn’t turn out the same as last time.

He wouldn’t let it.

John was looking at him, waiting patiently for him to respond, and when he did, his voice was a hoarse croak; when had he last spoken? Hours ago, days? Certainly not recently, not when the doctors and nurses had nothing to report, nothing to offer but worthless platitudes and reassurances he didn’t need. “Yes, John?”

The older man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together as he said quietly, “Wanna tell me about it now?”

Sherlock sighed and lowered his gaze, watching as his thumb stroked the back of Molly’s limp hand, over and over again. “Fine,” he said after a long minute. He cleared his throat, and John instantly reached for the pitcher of water sat on the window ledge. Sherlock waited until he’d poured the water and passed it over, then drank it down thirstily, feeling a surge of guilt at the knowledge that Molly could only take her nourishment via IV at the present time.

Everything he could do, that she could not, weighed on him now.

But John was his friend, whether he deserved him or not, and he’d made a request.

So Sherlock told him.

**New Year’s Eve, 1999-2000**

“It’s ridiculous, the actual millennium doesn’t begin until New Year’s Day 2001.”

The deep baritone caught Molly’s attention, not only because it was rather compelling but also because it sounded more than a bit familiar. She and her friend Meena had come out for the massive New Year’s celebration, and of all the people to run into in their favorite bar, she hadn’t expected it to be the annoying prat from her chemistry class.

She turned to see who he was annoying, faintly relieved that it was his friend – the only one he had, from what she could tell – Victor Trevor. Who simply grinned and took a deep gulp of his lager before slapping Sherlock on the back and laughing. “No one cares, mate. It’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” Sherlock demanded, somehow managing to look both haughty and bewildered.

Well. _That_ was certainly a new look on him; could it be there was something the mighty Sherlock Holmes didn’t understand? Aside from how to talk to people without annoying them, that is.

She was distracted from her blatant eavesdropping by the unexpected sight of Meena rushing over and throwing her arms around Victor, giving him a resounding kiss. Wait, so _that_ was her mystery boyfriend? Molly was confused; she’d actually thought that he and Sherlock were together, not simply good friends, but apparently that belief was entirely wrong. Interesting.

Even more interesting was her reaction to this discovery; yes, she was happy for Meena, but why was she feeling so relieved at the same time? After all, just because Victor wasn’t Sherlock’s boyfriend didn’t mean he fancied girls after all…

“Oh, fuck!” she exclaimed as realization dawned. She didn’t just pay attention to Sherlock because he was an annoying know-it-all; he didn’t just get on her last nerve because of his air of aloof superiority…she actually fancied him! How the hell had that happened? Yes, he was gorgeous, with that head of luscious, unruly curls he was constantly having to shake out of his eyes, and those cat-like blue-green eyes with their fascinating flecks of amber, and those lips…

Cursing again, Molly jerked away from the trio, trying to get herself under control, then cursed even louder as she spilled her beer down the front of her dress. Meena was too busy kissing Victor to notice, but apparently Sherlock had seen the whole thing, as he suddenly appeared by Molly’s side with a wad of napkins in his hand. “Here,” he said abruptly, thrusting them at her. 

Molly caught the napkins and stared up at him, too off-balance to say anything. He frowned and peered down at her. “Are you drunk? You can’t possibly be drunk, you never drink in excess even for such frivolous occasions as this one; this is your first drink of the night and you’ve barely had two sips of it. You’re not normally clumsy, I’ve seen you in class and you handle the scientific equipment and glassware with a great deal of assurance. Therefore something else has distracted or disturbed you this evening.” His eyes narrowed and he pulled back. “You aren’t jealous of your friend and Victor, are you? You’re not secretly in love with him or something ridiculous like that?”

Molly stared at him, wide-eyed, and slowly shook her head. Sherlock continued to study her, when his lips curled in a sudden, delighted smile and he reached out and very deliberately took back the napkins and laid them on the bar. “Molly Hooper. I do believe we share more than simply a common passion for science.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” she stammered out, and his smile deepened into something darkly seductive as he responded, lowering his mouth to whisper in her ear.

“Oh, Molly, I think you know _exactly_ what I mean.”

And so it was that, when midnight eventually came round, Meena Parker and Victor Trevor were busy shagging one another into the mattress in his flat, while Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper were doing the same thing in hers.


	2. Wreckage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reveals what happened after he and Molly were married...and it isn't pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my lovely readers and followers and commenters, you make it all worth it!

**The Present**

John studied Sherlock as he fell silent, gazing down at Molly’s unconscious form. The story of how they’d first started their personal relationship had been…not at all what John had expected, actually. He wondered if his friend had deduced Molly’s rather racy thoughts about him or if she’d told him about it. Most likely a combination of the two, of course, and entirely irrelevant at the moment.

No, it didn’t matter if Sherlock had deduced or Molly had confessed, not when she was lying here, fighting for her life after Jim Moriarty had done his level best to end it. Bastard was really dead this time; thank God for Mary’s skills with a pistol. 

Too bad she and John hadn’t arrived on the scene just a few seconds sooner, or this tragedy in the making might have been averted.

He thought Sherlock might have been finished speaking for a while, or maybe wasn’t ready to share what must have been an unhappy ending to this early, promising start to his relationship with Molly, and was a bit startled when his friend picked up the thread of the narrative again, a few minutes later.

“No one knew we were seeing one another,” he said. “Not even Meena and Victor. At first it was partly because neither of us could bear the idea of the relentless teasing we’d receive, and partly because it was…something rather special,” he added, sounding wistful. Imagine that; Sherlock Holmes sounding wistful. But then, considering the tender looks he was casting on Molly’s unconscious form, perhaps it wasn’t so hard to imagine after all.

“Sounds like you kept up the not-telling,” John prompted after a moment. If Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it, he wouldn’t have added on to the first bit he’d shared. 

The other man nodded. “Yes. For six months. Even Mycroft didn’t know, or at least, I thought he didn’t,” Sherlock added with a scowl. “But of course he knew everything…including the fact that my drug use was getting out of hand.”

That, in fact, had led to several fights with Molly, once she’d found out. And of course she’d found out; how could she not, when they were practically living together? Sherlock had moved out of the dorms and into a cramped bed-sit on Montague Street, citing the need for privacy in order to keep up his studies. His parents had accepted that excuse, although Mycroft had given Sherlock more than a few hard looks during his younger brother’s carefully worded presentation at a family dinner. A dinner to which he didn’t bring Molly; he wasn’t ready for his family to know about her, for her to be subjected to Mycroft’s withering sarcasm and his parents’ eccentricities and Sherrinford…no, best not to think about Sherrinford.

“Who’s Sherrinford?” John asked, interrupting Sherlock’s rambling narrative. 

He narrowed his eyes at his friend; had he truly spoken that part aloud? Apparently he had, for John continued to look at him expectantly. “My oldest brother,” Sherlock finally said. “He came to a bad end and that’s all I have to say on that matter. At least for now,” he added, noting John’s flash of hurt, quickly buried under an impassive demeanor. “But he did get to meet Molly.” His lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Unfortunately, it was after the accident.”

John tensed; he’d known there was something terrible coming, something awful that had happened for Molly and Sherlock to have gone from young lovers in college to…whatever their current relationship could be called. “Brain injury, was it?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded, a sharp jerk of his head, his eyes once again focused on Molly. For a moment he saw her, not as she was now, but as she had been that long-ago day; similarly unconscious, her head bandaged, her shoulder-length hair carefully shaved off on the left side of her head, tubes and wires, medication and transfused blood entering her fragile, damaged form.

All his fault. Both times.

No point in hiding it from anyone, especially not from John. “We had rather impulsively decided to get married when she was accepted into medical school. Too much alcohol and…other substances, at least on my part. Not that I regretted it when we woke up husband and wife the next morning,” he added quickly, casting a glance at John, curiosity and dread fighting for control of his emotions as he looked for the expected expression of condemnation in his friend’s eyes.

He was caught off-guard when he saw only sympathy and understanding; after how long it had taken John to forgive him , after his two-year ‘death’ – and then only as quickly as it had because Sherlock had essentially cheated his way back into John’s life – he’d expected at the most neutrality from John. It had taken him months to forgive Mary; what was different this time?

Something of his confusion must have shown as John’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Sherlock, I may be a slow learner, but I do learn. Things I thought were unforgiveable aren’t; as my therapist once pointed out, very few things in life are black and white. So I’ve learned – through some rather painful experiences, granted,” he interrupted himself to add, “that life is best viewed in those shades of grey people are always talking about. Besides,” he added shrewdly, leaning forward a bit and clasping his hands together, “I think you’ve spent the larger part of the past – what, fifteen years, is it? – punishing yourself. So you two got married drunk and high…what happened then?”

Sherlock sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pair of simple gold wedding bands strung together on a cheap metal chain. He unclipped the chain, pulled off the larger of the two and, after a brief hesitation, put it on his finger. He held the other one up and gazed at it, then, with a sharp nod as if confirming something to himself, slipped it onto Molly’s ring finger. “We got married, we decided to stay married, we were happy for a few days, I was taking her to meet my family…and I fucked up. Royally.”

Comprehension dawned, and with a flicker of sympathetic horror in John’s blue eyes. “You drove while you were high.”

Sherlock nodded, eyes closing as a surge of shame washed over him. “Yes. I’d told Molly I’d quit, and I thought I had it under control, but I ran into an…acquaintance…when I was leasing the car, we got to chatting…I was an idiot,” he said, opening his eyes but unable to meet John’s gaze at all. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at Molly’s face, only her hand, with the gold band once again on her finger, where it hadn’t rested for fifteen long years. “She realized I was high, we argued, she wanted me to stop the car, to pull over and let her out and I…” He let out a long, shuddering breath before continuing. “I told her that this was who she’d married, that it said a lot about her taste in men that she’d fall for a junkie and a sociopath…and some even more awful things.”

“Is that…that Christmas, the party, when she was wearing that dress and you thought she was meeting up with someone after…is that why? When she said that to you…”

“That I always said such awful things? Always?” Sherlock repeated the words he’d heard from Molly’s lips on two very different occasions, his own lips twisting with self-hatred as he nodded in answer to John’s not-quite-a-question. “It literally stunned me, John, to hear those words from her. I’d suppressed a lot of things about the two of us, had tried my best to delete her from my mind after the accident, but those words brought it all back. And when I realized that she hadn’t said it deliberately, that it was no different than if her mind had conjured up a line of dialogue from a movie she’d seen once and mostly forgotten…” He shrugged. “I apologized to her. At least this time she could hear me...”

oOo

He woke up, dizzy, disoriented, blinking some kind of dripping wetness from his eyes, brushing it away, then freezing in horror as the metallic tang of freshly-spilt blood reached his nostrils. He blinked again harder, tried to move, but found he couldn’t. Then his bleary vision snapped into focus, along with the laser-sharpness of his mind, and he remembered everything. The wedding. The blissful honeymoon. The decision to take Molly to meet his family and introduce her as his wife.

Meeting up with Greg Dvořák, who’d signaled that he was still in a position to provide Sherlock with any number of illegal substances…and which offer Sherlock had eagerly taken up, sparing only a second to wonder guiltily how Molly would feel if she knew he’d broken his promise to stay clean. Then the coke had hit his system and all worries fell away until Molly caught on and the argument between them became a screaming match and then she was screaming in terror as the car swerved into oncoming traffic and the headlights and the blaring of horns and screeching of brakes and a tremendous jolt and then…nothing. Darkness. Silence.

Until now. Until he’d awoken with blood on his face, dripping, dripping.

Not his blood.

The car had fetched up on its side; Molly hung limply from her seatbelt, her hair hanging down and blocking her face from his view, but the blood was coming from beneath that, far too much of it.

Vaguely Sherlock became aware that someone was screaming for help; he only realized it was him when he broke into a fit of coughing and the hoarse screams abruptly stopped. Then hands were reaching for him, voice were calling to him, but he fought them as he tried to make them help Molly, as he insisted he was fine (he wasn’t, actually; he had a broken arm and various scrapes and contusions that left him looking like something from a stage production of Frankenstein for weeks after) and tried to staunch the flow of blood streaming from her head.

Mercifully, unconsciousness took him again at that point, as he struggled against the emergency rescue crew who were trying to pull him free of the wreckage.


	3. Blame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very, very VERY angsty chapter with references to drug use and the aftermath of the car accident and bad language and a lot of emotional stuff like that. So...yeah. Sorry.

When Sherlock woke up he was in a hospital bed; without a second thought he ripped the IV tube from the back of his hand and swung his legs over the side, his only thought that of finding Molly. He barely even noticed the cast on his arm or the pain the throbbed dully over his entire body; the only thing that stopped him, in fact, was the sudden presence of his brothers in front of him. “Sherlock,” Sherrinford ordered sternly, “get back in bed. You’ve just been in a…”

“A car accident, yes,” he’d impatiently interrupted his elder sibling. The one who so closely resembled him that in spite of the ten-year age difference people still sometimes mistook them for twins.

“She’s alive.”

That was Mycroft, speaking without any inflection, none of his usual supercilious attitude and without his usual expression of disdain. That should have been his first warning, but all he felt was relief; Molly was alive. He hadn’t killed her. His greatest fear had been alleviated by Mycroft’s words, but he needed to know more. He needed to be with her, to see her with his own eyes and assess the damage he’d done.

“She’s suffered a head injury, Sherlock, but you already know that, don’t you.” This time Sherlock heard the note of disapproval beneath the veneer of concern in Mycroft’s voice. “Her father is with her, and I doubt very much that he would like to see the man responsible for putting his daughter in hospital at the moment.”

“She’s my wife,” Sherlock shot back, his voice cracking a bit on the last word. 

“Yes, and you thought it would be a good idea to celebrate your marriage by getting back on drugs?” Sherlock reddened at the harshness of Mycroft’s accusation, but couldn’t find the energy to try and deny it. Not that it would do him any good if he did; undoubtedly his blood work had shown that he’d been high at the time of the accident.

Sherrinford spoke up. “Don’t worry, Sherlock, we’ll make sure you don’t go to jail for any of this.”

Sherlock was in his brother’s face so fast he barely had time to blink, snarling, “You think I care what happens to me? I nearly got my wife killed today, Sherrinford. Going to jail is the least I deserve!”

“Yes, but it still won’t happen,” Mycroft cut in. “It would break Mummy’s heart if her baby spent time in jail, no matter what the reason. Instead you’re going to go along with Sherrinford to a nice place in the country for rehab – and hopefully it’ll stick this time.”

“I have to see Molly first,” Sherlock replied stubbornly. “I need to know that she’ll be all right.”

Mycroft sighed. “Fine. But we’ll have to wait for her father to take a break for coffee or something, else I can’t be held responsible for his reaction.”

“Then make sure he takes one soon,” Sherlock shot back, starting to run his fingers through his hair and only then noting that he appeared to have broken his left arm, and that the cast covered from his wrist to his elbow.

oOo

“Mr. Hooper, unfortunately, refused to leave Molly’s side, so I was forced to speak with him after all,” Sherlock continued after another uncomfortable silence. “And suffice it to say he had some unpleasant, unkind and unfortunately very true things to say to me.”

“He blamed you,” John guessed.

“How could he not, when I blamed myself?” Sherlock retorted angrily, reaching up with his free hand to rake his fingers through his hair in unconscious imitation of his actions fifteen years earlier. “Honestly, John, weren’t you listening? The whole damn thing was my fault! I wouldn’t blame him if he’d tried to throttle me, or forbade me from visiting Molly.” He took a deep, shaky breath, visibly calming himself. “But he did neither of those things; after hurling some very ugly names at me and telling me this was all my fault, he calmed a bit and told me the only reason he wasn’t banning me from Molly’s room was because he knew…he knew how much she loved me.”

oOo

“You couldn’t ban me anyway, Mr. Hooper,” Sherlock said, his voice sound remote and cold even to his own ears. “We’re married, or didn’t they give you her wedding ring when they gave you her personal effects?” His own had been silently returned to him by Sherrinford before Sherlock had insisted on being taken to Molly’s room.

Henry Hooper glared at him, his eyes red-rimmed, the tracks of tears clear on his wrinkled cheeks. Molly was his only child; he and his wife had had her late in life, an unplanned pregnancy but a welcome one after years of childlessness. Now the wife was dead and the husband was terrified that he would outlive his daughter and even though he knew he should tread softly and show this man – his father-in-law – the remorse he was feeling, his own terror and pain, Sherlock couldn’t. He just…couldn’t. Faced with such an intensely emotional situation, he did what he’d always done instead: he shut down. Didn’t let Mr. Hooper see his pain and guilt. Coolly examined Molly’s body as if she were a stranger, outwardly showing no signs of any emotion as he rattled off his assessment of her trauma: Bruised chest, multiple lacerations, many requiring stitches – four that he could see without removing her blankets or the hospital-issue gown she was now wearing – bruising on her face and arms, bandages around her head, her hair half-missing prognosis good other than potential brain damage from said head injury…

He never saw the punch coming, but he felt it when it landed, shocked into silence by the blow as he collapsed to the linoleum, head ringing and jaw aching. He tasted blood and heard himself chuckling as if from a long distance. The chuckles threatened to turn to full-blown hysteria before he heard the sound of the door opening and people rushing into the room. Vaguely he realized that Molly’s father was shouting at him, screaming at him to get out, to stay away from his daughter, that he would have the marriage annulled and see Sherlock in court if there was any permanent damage to her. But Mycroft and Sherrinford were there, hauling him to his feet, hustling him out of the room while the doctor and several nurses attempted to calm Mr. Hooper and checked Molly over at the same time. Sherlock felt a sharp sting at the back of his head, and realized that Molly’s wedding band had been chucked at him. Mycroft bent and retrieved it without a word, white-faced and tight-lipped, but Sherlock couldn’t find the wherewithal to care what he did with it.

Mr. Hooper was right. This was entirely his fault, and he didn’t deserve a woman as loving, as brilliant, as beautiful and as fiercely loyal as Molly Hooper-Holmes. No, not Holmes; simply Hooper. She deserved to find someone who wouldn’t put his own selfish needs above hers, who wasn’t weak and stupid and worthless…

Someone was touching his face, and he wiped irritably at them; why couldn’t they just leave him alone? He wasn’t worth fussing over, he never had been, and tonight was proof of that. Sherrinford’s concerned face swam into view, and he realized he was crying, that was why his brother was wiping at his face. “Leave me, Sherrinford,” he snapped, yanking his arm out of Mycroft’s grasp at the same time, stumbling back against the corridor wall. “Just leave me the fuck alone, all of you. You can’t fix this, and you sure as hell can’t fix me. If anyone could, it would have been Molly, and you can see just how spectacularly she failed. So just…fuck off and leave me alone!” He was half-shouting by then, uncaring who might hear him, and lashed out when Mycroft attempted to manhandle him back to his room. Then there were more doctors and nurses and orderlies, all holding him down as he shouted and fought, tears still streaming down his cheeks the entire time, right up until he felt the pinch of a needle entering his upper arm and fell into the welcome bliss provided by a powerful sedative.


	4. Recovery

“Wow. That was…that must have been very difficult. For everyone,” John said quietly when his friend once again fell silent. Sherlock’s voice was very raw, every painful emotion clearly still felt even now, years later. Well, no surprise there, since he found himself revisiting that moment; not exactly the same, of course, but similar enough. Molly in hospital suffering from a head wound that Sherlock blamed himself for.

Sherlock shrugged. “Yes, difficult is the word. But I only allowed it to be difficult for me for a very short period of time, just long enough for my injuries to heal and for me to be released from the rehab clinic my dear brother Sherrinford escorted me to the day after my little meltdown.”

“Did you see Molly again before you left?” 

“No.” The flat denial startled John, but he reminded himself that Sherlock wasn’t doing very well now, either, and decided not to comment on it. Still, it would have been better if he’d taken the time to say good-bye to her, although of course if Mr. Hooper was still there it could have gotten more than awkward…

“She was in surgery when I left, John, otherwise I would have gone to see her,” Sherlock said, seemingly responding to John’s thoughts. God, he hated when he did that, but supposed he’d given it away by how he glanced at Molly and bit his lip or by a dozen other possible clues no normal human would be able to pick up. “I tried to make them wait but Sherrinford insisted and Mycroft threatened to call my parents and tell them the whole sordid tale – including the fact that I’d gotten married without telling anyone – and I allowed myself to be persuaded.” He grinned mirthlessly. “I’m sure the sedatives they administered right before I was discharged helped.”

“So what happened next?” It was the obvious question, probably too obvious for Sherlock, but John felt the need to prompt his friend a bit, since clearly there was more to the story than just the bits he’d been told so far. “You went to rehab, and then?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I stayed for a month and was released. Then I relapsed six months later and was escorted back again by Sherrinford, stayed six weeks this time, and was released again.”

“And Molly?”

“Recovered her health remarkably quickly.”

“But not her memories?” was John’s next, quiet, question. Again, an obvious one, but again, one he felt compelled to ask. He needed to hear Sherlock’s confirmation – and Sherlock, he thought, needed to say the words.

“No, not her memories,” he said in a low voice. “Never her memories. The entire six months we’d known one another was simply…gone. She had no idea who I was; I tried to visit her when after she’d gone home and I’d left rehab the first time, but her father met me at the door and very bluntly told me I wasn’t welcome in their home, that Molly was better off not remembering me, and then he warned me that if I tried to contact her in future, he would have me prosecuted for harassment. Not that such a threat bothered me, but I knew he was right. If Molly didn’t remember me, didn’t remember the accident…who was I to stir up such painful memories?”

“You were her husband, Sherlock,” John said softly, nodding at the rings gracing their fingers. “Still are, yeah? No divorce or annulment?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “No. Oh, Mr. Hooper tried, I gather, but without Molly’s knowledge or consent he had no legal recourse. And Mycroft made sure to block any such attempts, at Sherrinford’s behest. He thought a quiet divorce would be best, but our brother convinced him otherwise.”

“And was that – Molly not remembering you, I mean – was that why you relapsed again?”

Another nod in response. “It wasn’t just me she’d forgotten – she had to repeat the entire semester she’d lost as well. But she did it,” he added, voice ringing with pride. “She’s always had enough determination for any five people, John, did you know that about her? She’s very stubborn.” He sounded just as proud of what many might consider a negative character trait – but that John knew very well Sherlock did not.

So there it all was, laid out like a puzzle. Sherlock had already said that he’d tried to delete their relationship – and failed. But he’d done nothing to try and reignite the spark that had once kindled between them, and John was desperate to know why. Desperate – but not so desperate that he would actually ask. Of course Sherlock picked up on his internal struggle, and of course he knew what John wanted to know. “I have never stopped feeling guilty for being at fault for the accident, John,” he said quietly. The hand holding Molly’s tightened a bit, then relaxed again as he returned to lightly stroking her fingers with his. “Molly has always deserved better than me, even you know that. But I couldn’t bring myself to completely remove myself from her life, either. And when she saw me, during the first Moriarty debacle, saw that I was…sad, and hiding it from you…I knew I could never let her go entirely. But I could stop interfering, stop giving her mixed signals. The knowledge that I would have to vanish for an unknown length of time after faking my death gave me the strength I needed to finally tell her to stop hoping for something more between us.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sighed, shaking his head sadly. “You utter git. Isn’t it obvious she never stopped loving you, even if she couldn’t remember your past together?”

“Yes, of course it is, John,” Sherlock snapped. “But me going off to hunt down Moriarty’s criminal empire and dismantle it was hardly the time to reveal that past to her. Besides, while I was gone, I changed my mind. I was determined to tell her everything, to have Mycroft corroborate it, show her the marriage license and give her back her ring. But she was already engaged, she seemed happy with the dimwit, and I decided to just step back again. I knew Mycroft could fiddle a divorce or an annulment even without her participation, and Sherrinford wasn’t around this time to convince either of us otherwise.”

John wondered what had happened to Sherlock’s lookalike older brother, but now wasn’t the time to derail the conversation. He’d save those questions for another time. “But you didn’t go through with it,” he pointed out instead. “Why not? Were you going to wait until the last possible minute?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yup,” he replied succinctly, popping the final ‘p’ in that annoying manner he had. “But it turned out to be unnecessary in the end, since Molly broke things off with Meat Dagger. Which I should have known would happen – he was entirely too dull for her,” he burst out in aggravated tones. “But of course she did so when I was wrapped up in the Magnussen case.”

“And had gone back to drugs,” John reminded him bluntly. When Sherlock gave him an outraged look, John simply raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me it was just for the case, Sherlock; no one bought it then, and I’m damned sure not buying it now.”

“Fine,” Sherlock bit out, scowling and hunching in his chair like a sulky child. It was such a familiar reaction that John had to hide a grin behind one hand as he shifted in his own seat. “It was a relapse and Molly’s reaction just reminded me again why I didn’t deserve her.” His free hand rose and hovered over his cheek, as if in unconscious reaction to the three well-deserved slaps she’d given him that day.

“So what now?” It was the only question left to ask, really. Sherlock had placed the ring back on Molly’s finger, and his own now sat firmly in place on his left hand, but it didn’t sound like he’d actually decided to tell her about the fourteen-year-old secret he’d been keeping.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock’s voice was raw, uncertain, in a way John had seldom heard it. “She’s here again because of me, John; isn’t that proof enough that I was right not to try and rekindle things with her? I’m dangerous, it’s not safe to be close to me, you know that!”

“Yeah, but I still stick around,” John pointed out, keeping his tone light and trying not to think about waking up inside a bonfire from which he’d only barely been rescued. “And so does Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mary…we all love you, Sherlock, as much as your own family does. And Molly is your family as well as your friend. I think you owe it to her to tell her the truth, and let her make up her own mind about what to do with that truth, yeah?”

“Yeah,” came a raspy voice. Molly’s voice. John and Sherlock both gaped at her; they had been so wrapped up in their discussion that they hadn’t noticed her opening her eyes. “Tell me what truth you’ve been keeping from me, Sherlock.” A cough interrupted her, and she frowned and shifted slightly on the bed. “Maybe after you get me some water?”

Sherlock seemed frozen in place, but John hurried to grab the pitcher that sat by her bedside, pouring a small measure of the icy water into the plastic cup that had been provided. His hands were shaking, but he managed not to spill it and even got the straw out of its wrapper and into the cup without incident. He thrust it abruptly into Sherlock’s hand and mumbled something about fetching Molly’s doctor, then hurried out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

Molly took a grateful sip of the water when Sherlock held it to her mouth, then leaned her head back and closed her eyes wearily. “So. What’s this about telling me the truth?”


	5. Awakenings

Sherlock didn’t answer her question, of course. Not right away, as John quickly reappeared with various nurses and doctors in tow. Sherlock stepped back and watched quietly as Molly was questioned and examined, as tests were scheduled and various procedures discussed, all the fuss and bother that comes with a coma patient with serious head trauma waking back up to the world. During the bustle as the doctors and nurses descended on Molly, Sherlock managed to slip out of the room without John noticing.

The ring, however, remained firmly on Molly’s left hand, which meant that Sherlock wasn’t going to try and wriggle out of telling her the truth when things settled back down and she was deemed recovered enough for a serious, potentially life-altering conversation.

Considering how confused she must be, John actually thought about retrieving it himself, but decided against it. Which was just as well, since he saw Molly lift her hand and frown at the unexpected article of jewelry. Then her neurologist noticed it as well, tutted, and asked her to remove it since they were going to be sending her off for an MRI. She allowed him to slip it from her finger to give to John for safekeeping; he saw the questions in her eyes, and before she was taken from the room, promised that answers would be forthcoming.

As soon as she was gone, Sherlock magically reappeared, looking haggard and smelling of cigarette smoke. “They’ve taken her down for an MRI,” John announced, probably unnecessarily. He handed Sherlock the small gold band. “She couldn’t keep this on,” he added apologetically – and, once again, probably unnecessarily.

Sherlock simply nodded and replaced it in his trouser pocket before walking over and collapsing bonelessly into the chair he’d formerly occupied. “She remembered everything except getting shot,” John volunteered quickly, knowing that was one question Sherlock needed to hear a definitive answer to, even if he hadn’t stuck around long enough to hear Molly say it in her own words. “She remembered Moriarty, and knew who I was…and asked about you,” he added, watching Sherlock narrowly.

The other man simply nodded, but John could have sworn he saw a flash of happiness on his face, just the slightest crinkling of the corners of his eyes, the briefest upturn of lips. Then he rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, raised his hands with his index and middle fingers resting against one another below his lips in a posture very familiar to John, and retreated into his mind palace.

John just hoped he was reviewing how best to explain things to Molly upon her return.

A return which, unfortunately, John was going to have to miss. “I need to go home, Mary’ll be needing me to help with Isabelle,” he said, walking closer to Sherlock and hoping his friend wasn’t so far sunk into his own mind that he couldn’t hear him. He laid a hand on the other man’s shoulder and squeezed lightly, then turned to leave after receiving no response.

“Thank you, John,” he heard from behind him, just as he reached for the door handle. He turned back and offered Sherlock a faint grin. “And don’t worry, I’ll tell her everything, or as much as her doctor’s think she can handle at this juncture as I don’t wish to set back her recovery by so much as a single second.”

John nodded, confident that this time Sherlock would get it right, and left him to his thoughts.

oOo

Sherlock retreated deeper into his mind palace now that John’s distracting presence was gone. He was grimly fighting a battle on two mental fronts: to tamp down the bubbling joy that Molly was awake, conscious and aware with no memory loss save that typical of a head injury – trauma-induced amnesia of the event that caused the trauma in the first place – and a very atypical terror. Terror that, once he told her their true history and explained his own culpability, that she would finally do it. Turn away from him, give him up for the lost cause he knew himself to be.

Hate him.

Wouldn’t it just save them all time if he simply vanished from her life and left her to live hers in safety? File the divorce papers, let her find a nice man to marry and settle down with, have children with, forget she ever knew him, this time for good? Wouldn’t it be kinder to do so? He half rose from his seat, then sank back down, hearing John’s mental voice chiding him, “Kind? No Sherlock, that wasn’t kind” and “A bit not good, Sherlock” while Mary stood behind him and simply folded her arms and shook her head slowly. 

He knew where John’s words had come from, and why Mary’s simple presence was enough to remind him why trying to bury your past from those you loved was a mistake. He’d deliberately left the ring on Molly’s finger after she’d awoken, a clue for her to puzzle over if her mind was clear enough to do so – which, judging by the question she’d asked upon awakening, it certainly was. That question showed she’d heard what he and John had said, and that she wasn’t befuddled or confused. She hadn’t asked where she was or what had happened, instead had zeroed in on the thing that had most piqued her interest.

Molly Hooper, like Sherlock Holmes, had always been a seeker after the truth, no matter how painful. He remembered hearing her tell a co-worker once that she thought it better that the families know the truth of how their loved ones had ended up on her slab, even it hurt them in the short run. Because in the long run…

“The truth can bring closure if not peace,” he murmured to himself, blinking his eyes and once again seeing the impersonal hospital room around him.

He nodded once, sharply, and settled back into his chair to wait. As soon as Molly was strong enough to hear him out, he would tell her everything.

Including how much he still loved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am honestly not trying to be a tease; it just occurred to me that maybe her doctors would frown upon him dumping emotionally upsetting info on her the minute she woke up from a head-injury induced coma, especially since said head injury was due to a gunshot wound! Next chapter is called "Confessions" which is my promise to my readers that Molly and Sherlock will finally have that long overdue heart-to-heart. Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to comment and review, and I hope you don't hate me for this (plot dictated) delayed gratification!


	6. Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for following and favoriting and reading and reviewing, I'm so happy when I see the love this story is getting. This is the penultimate chapter, one left to go and of course, how could I resist? This one ends on a cliffie, you've been warned!

He was dozing when they finally wheeled her back to the room, but jumped to his feet before more than the edge of the gurney made its way through the door. He pulled his chair out of the way and stepped over toward the window, watching, cataloguing, deducing. Molly was asleep; truly asleep, not lapsed back into a coma. Her breathing pattern, the slight twitches of her body, the relaxed demeanors of the orderlies who’d returned her to him told him that much.

She woke up a bit when the orderlies transferred her to her bed. He moved the chair back by her bedside as she opened her eyes and smiled drowsily at him. “Is he dead?”

Sherlock nodded, knowing who she was asking about and knowing that the doctors most likely wouldn’t have answered her if she’d asked them. Not because they didn’t know – it was still all over the news two weeks after the event – but because they’d probably deem it too upsetting for her to know. And although he was willing to put off his other news, this was something that could only help her to know. “Yes. Mary got him. He’s really dead this time.”

Molly sighed, a soft exhalation more felt than heard. “Good,” she murmured, eyes starting to flutter shut again. “Sherlock, ‘m tired, but don’t think I forgot you owe me an explanation,” she mumbled, weakly lifting her left hand in explanation.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he replied softly, daring to take that hand in his own and give it a brief squeeze.

Molly’s eyes shot open and she stared down at their joined hands. Well, of course; he was hardly the touchy-feely type, so naturally…Sherlock’s heart sank as he realized that it wasn’t just the fact that he’d taken her hand in his that had jolted her back to awareness. No, she’d felt the cool weight of his wedding band against her flesh, taken note of the ring and was staring directly at it.

“I promise I’ll explain,” he said, cutting off any demands she might make of him. “But not right now, Molly. You’ve just woken up after surgery to remove a bullet from your skull, and two weeks in a coma. When the doctors judge you’re strong enough, you have my word; I’ll tell you everything, answer any question you might have. But not just now. Please,” he added, feeling his throat close up a bit, tight with emotion he rarely allowed himself.

She subsided back against the pillow; she’d half-lifted her head in order to get a better look at his ring. “All right,” she sighed, closing her eyes. “But this had better not involve a case and you needing a fake wife, Sherlock Holmes!”

Her unexpected comment – a joke? A warning that he’d better not be ‘Janining’ her? – brought a short laugh out of him, and she smiled sleepily before once again dropping into slumber.

oOo

The next few days were full of more tests and procedures, but finally Molly’s doctors seemed satisfied that she was on the road to a full recovery. She showed no signs of memory loss or cognitive damage from the bullet wound she’d taken to the left side of her head. In fact, she was every bit her usual, cheery self; clearly Moriarty hadn’t managed to wound her spirit in spite of wounding her body.

During those days many of Molly’s friends and coworkers came by to see her, including John and Mary, but Sherlock was noticeably absent. When Molly tried to quiz John on the wedding bands – emphasizing that yes, she’d seen the one Sherlock was wearing as well – he’d looked shifty and insisted it wasn’t his story to tell. “Aha! So there is a story, then?” Molly crowed, pouncing on his turn of phrase. “It’s not just some obscure psychological theory he found online or something?”

“A…what?” he asked, giving Mary a look of appeal, clearly hoping for her to rescue him from this conversation.

A look she ignored with a small grin as Molly explained, “You know, a theory that, I dunno, coma patients are more apt to wake up if they notice some kind of physical change, something outside the norm. Or some kind of connection via osmosis or sympathetic vibrations on a quantum level; like, we have matching rings on our fingers in order for me to subconsciously notice and want to wake up so I can ask about it…”

She was rambling and didn’t even care, too happy to be on the mend and able to leave the hospital soon. The only thing that would make it perfect would be if Sherlock himself were to show up and explain himself. Or at least explain the rings. John definitely knew something, but what he knew was still a mystery.

She knew it wasn’t fair, but tried to get Mary to explain things while John was answering a phone call in the hallway. “Sorry, Molly, but he hasn’t even told me what’s going on,” Mary replied, sounding regretful. “Believe me, I’ve tried to get him to open up, but he just says it’s not his secret to tell, just like he did to you.”

“Then whose secret is it?” Molly exclaimed in frustration, just as the door opened.

“Mine, obviously,” an unexpected voice – not John’s – said in reply. Sherlock; of course it was Sherlock, and of course he was right; it was obvious whose secret John was keeping, just as it was obvious what said secret involved. 

Molly was fed up with all of it. She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at the consulting detective who was standing – no, not just standing, but fidgeting – by the door to her room. “Sherlock, are you going to tell me that Jim forced us to get married before he shot me? Because frankly I don’t think he was that much of a romantic…”

“Oh, look at the time!” Mary exclaimed, jumping to her feet and giving Molly a wide, insincere smile. “I’ve just remembered, John and I have a…thing…to get to. Lovely to see you’re feeling more yourself, Molly, take care!” She leaned down and gave the protesting pathologist a kiss on the cheek, then fairly skipped to Sherlock’s side. “See you later!” she said, tiptoeing up to press a kiss to his cheek as well. She nudged him further into the room, opened the door, and allowed it to close behind her.

Leaving one very confused and annoyed pathologist, and one very confused and disconcerted consulting detective to stare at one another.

They both spoke at the same time, as Sherlock moved hesitantly closer to her bed. “Sherlock, whatever it is, just tell me –” “Molly, I think it’s time you knew the truth –”

They both fell silent, neither one taking up the thread of conversation until Sherlock had gingerly seated himself in the chair Mary had so precipitously vacated. He stared down at Molly’s hand, where she’d replaced the wedding band after John had returned it to her, then down at his own with its matching ring of gold. Still moving hesitantly, with an unsureness that caused Molly’s breath to hitch and heart to clench even though she wasn’t entirely sure why, he reached over and laid his hand on the covers next to hers.

Eyes lowered, his gaze fixed on their two hands, he spoke, and Molly listened, by turns enraptured, disconcerted, horrified, and filled with a tender sympathy that filled her eyes with tears. “We were married on June 2, 2000,” Sherlock began, and took her through their entire relationship…and its nearly deadly aftermath. He spoke about her amnesia, her father’s white-hot anger at him for causing the accident, unflinchingly admitting to his drug use as the catalyst for their argument. He left nothing out, spared himself not in the slightest.

As he fell silent Molly sat quietly, trying to process it all. It seemed insane, like the plot of a badly done movie, but at the same time, she believed it. All of it. It explained so much; her father’s reluctance to tell her exactly how she’d been involved in a car crash, why he’d refused to talk to her about the boy who’d been driving, even why Meena had been so evasive about things once they’d gotten back into contact. All of it made sense now.

And for the first time since she’d ‘met’ Sherlock Holmes at St. Bart’s, everything made sense. Why he seemed to push her away one minute and draw her close the next. Why he’d been so flummoxed when she told him she didn’t count, why he’d been so utterly sincere when he later informed that she did count, that she’d always counted. Even his harsh treatment of her at that horrible Christmas party made a hideous kind of sense now, and how their day of case-solving after he’d returned from the ‘dead’ felt so much like a date…and why his kiss to her cheek at the end of it had felt like good-bye.

“You were actually going to let me marry Tom?” she finally asked, watching with a small smile quirking the corners of her lips as he finally met her gaze. It was obvious he hadn’t been expecting that particular question to be her first.

“You said you were happy,” he replied, sounding slightly bewildered. “And that’s all I’ve ever wanted, Molly, was for you to be happy. Clearly I wasn’t able to do that for you…”

“Clearly you aren’t the one who gets to make that decision,” Molly cut in, her voice a bit sharper than she’d intended. She moved restlessly against the pillows piled behind her back on the raised bed, fingers plucking at the sheets as she continued to study Sherlock. Part of her was bursting with happiness at the idea of being Sherlock’s wife, but the other…

She shook her head and sighed. “Sherlock, if you weren’t going to ever tell me the truth, then why did we stay married? Why didn’t you have it annulled? I’m sure Mycroft could have waved his brolly and performed some sort of government hocus-pocus. Why wait until I was engaged to someone else to have the papers drawn up?” Very slowly she moved her hand so that it was nearly touching his where it lay on the bed. “Can you tell me why?”

He turned his head away, but she noticed that his hand remained in place, fingers tightly curled in on themselves but not quite forming a fist. “You know why,” he said in a low voice.

“No, I really don’t,” she replied, shaking her head. “I need to hear it, Sherlock. Do you – are you – did you actually love me, ever?” Her voice was wistful, shaking a bit, but she needed to know. Had he married her out of simple infatuation, was he still her husband out of guilt alone, or was there something more?

His head snapped back to meet hers, the intensity of his gaze causing her eyes to widen as he spoke, his voice even more intense than the electric blue of his eyes. “Yes, Molly, I love you. I’ve always loved you, never stopped, still do, very likely always will. I’ve tried, God knows I’ve tried, because what has my loving you ever brought you but pain and heartache? But I can’t stop, and I’ve given up trying.” Suddenly both hands were clutching hers, his index finger stroking the plain gold band that adorned her ring finger as he rushed on, the words spilling out of him in a torrent, carried on the tide of pent-up emotion she couldn’t fail to recognize as being the most sincere he’d ever been. “I should have let you go, stayed out of your life, but I couldn’t. Even knowing how badly I’d hurt you – not just the accident, but the drugs and the arrogance of thinking I could control them when all they were doing was controlling me…I didn’t deserve you then, and I don’t deserve you now, but if you can someday see your way clear to forgiving me, I don’t ever want these rings to leave our fingers again.”

He drew a shuddering breath and briefly closed his eyes. Sensing he had more to say, Molly remained quiet, waiting. Allowing him to continue to hold her hands. “And if you can’t…if I’ve left it too late and you decide you want nothing more to do with me, I’ll understand. I’ll sign the divorce papers, I’ll stay out of your life, and I’ll wish you nothing but the happiness you so richly deserve. And I don’t expect any sort of an answer right now, even I’m not that selfish. You can take as long as you need.”

This time when he fell silent, Molly knew it was because he’d said everything he wanted to say, and was waiting to hear her response. “Oh, Sherlock,” she said with a sigh, “I don’t need any time. I already know my answer. And I think you do, too.”


	7. Conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end of this little saga. Thank you all for your lovely comments and for sticking with it. Sorry this last chapter is so short, but anythig else would have just been needlessly padding things out. Enjoy!

Sherlock studied Molly as she stopped speaking, taking in every nuance as his eyes flicked over her face, down to their joined hands – hers still resting loosely, quietly, comfortably beneath his – then traveling back up. They paused on her shoulders, which looked as comfortable and relaxed as the rest of her body language; there was no tension, no anger, only a calm bordering on serenity in her eyes, the set of her lips, in every part of her. She wasn’t smiling, wasn’t frowning, no explicit clues as to her answer; indeed, she gave off the very picture of a woman who was certain in her decision, whatever it might be.

And in spite of her last words…he had no idea what her answer was. None. His mind was a complete blank, as if his ability to deduce from the barest hint had been stymied by the neutrality of her current aspect. “I have no idea.” Sherlock said the words aloud, wincing internally at the hint of anxiety in his voice as he spoke. Molly’s brow knit, confusion and disbelief in her eyes as he rushed to assure her of the truth of his words. “I’m not just saying that, Molly. I really have no idea…and I have no desire to deduce you, either.” He took in a gulp of air. “I’d rather you just told me. Please.”

It was his turn to fall under her scrutiny, to wait with a show of patience as she studied him, her eyes flitting over his form in a manner very familiar to him, albeit from the other side. Her lips remained unsmiling, her pulse steady beneath his fingers…until suddenly it wasn’t. His eyes flew up to meet hers as his fingers tightened on her wrist; was she in physical distress, should he call a nurse, or was it merely an emotional response triggered by whatever it was she read from him?

“Sherlock, the answer is and always will be yes. You know that.”

Those two sentences fell on his ears like the sweetest music, and his eyes fluttered shut as a wave of pure relief flowed over him. He curled his fingers around hers and felt an answering squeeze, then suddenly the small distance between them was too much. He pulled his hand away, opening his eyes as he shrugged out of his coat. “Budge over, Mrs. Holmes,” he ordered, knowing Molly would see right through this show of high-handedness to the relief and, yes, love, behind the words.

Her answering smile was wide and lovely as she obediently scooted to the far side of the narrow bed. She was no longer attached to the monitoring machinery, no longer wired to an IV, but he still clambered next to her as carefully as if he might dislodge those non-existent wires, as if she were as fragile as others seemed to believe her to be.

But not him. Not now, never again. His Molly was strong, far stronger than he was, truth be told. And yes, she was his, just as he was hers. Not just in a past he’d tried so hard to suppress, but in the here and now, and in the future that no longer looked bleak and lonely.

“I love you, wife,” he said, his voice a low rumble against the back of her neck as he nestled his lanky form around hers. His arms encircled her petite body, made even tinier by her recent medical ordeal, but as always hiding an unsuspected strength. Her arms covered his, and she turned her head to brush a soft kiss against his lips, which he returned eagerly.

“I love you too, husband,” she replied, then settled her head beneath his chin.

Sherlock had never felt happier, and as they drifted off to sleep, his last thought was that being in Molly’s arms was like coming home.


End file.
